


'I'm Sorry, I Have To Vomit'

by zaticon1



Category: Stephen King 'It' emetophilia
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-20
Updated: 2019-04-20
Packaged: 2020-01-23 01:06:33
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,120
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18539182
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/zaticon1/pseuds/zaticon1
Summary: This incident takes place immediately after Beverly leaves the table when she and her friends crack open the tainted fortune cookies that Pennywise manifested for them, at the end of the Chinese dinner they have together, after gathering in Derry.  It (no pun intended) was a natural for me, because the book only gives a one line tease of her illness AND because Annette O'Toole has been a celebrity crush of mine since 'Cat People.  Enjoy!





	'I'm Sorry, I Have To Vomit'

“I’m sorry, I have to vomit.” The words replayed in Beverlys’ mind, as the door of the ladies room sighed shut behind her. Even before they were out of her mouth, she knew that they weren’t necessary. Everyone at the table was sickened by what they saw. “Out of my mouth….” She gave a grimacing smile at the word play and swallowed against her nausea. She folded her arms below her breasts and leaned back against the closed door and breathed in and out, gathering herself for what was coming. 

She knew why she said those words, and why she’d looked directly across at Ben as she spoke. She was inviting him to come with her, for comfort. For comfort, yes and for pleasure. Yet, here she was, alone, sweltering in her nausea.

The memory of the cookies sent a dangerous shudder through her. She clenched as the huge load inside her rose and tried to spill over. The lingering pain in her ribs flared to life as she struggled with her gorge.

She saw herself in the mirror over the basin and noticed, with horror, how distended with food her belly was. Immediately, she was reminded of the cookies, and of the awful stuff that had been hidden under that smoothly round crust. Oh, God, what was REALLY in her stomach? What had they all eaten, REALLY Her mouth ran with thick, ropey saliva. As panic took her retching, lurching for the toilet. The taste was horrible and, somehow, familiar. As she went to her knees, sliding toward the bowl, her mouth continued to fill andfinally overflowed, big droplets of spit escaping her lips and hitting the floor with loud, sickening “spat” sounds. she She lurched and dropped in front of the toilet, knees banging down on the tiles, her breasts mashing against the rim of the bowl, the cold and the pressure instantly bringing her already swollen nipples to rock hardness. She threw back the seat of the toilet and let her head sag as she drew in a deep, involuntary breath, then let it out in a frighteningly loud dry retch that brought the pain in her injured ribs to blazing life. She didn’t care. She welcomed the sickness, relished in it. Whatever horrible poisons the clown had tricked her into eating, the sickness would take them away. 

The wave washed through her and ended. In the ringing silence that followed, he heard the dripping splashes as the saliva continued to flow out of the glands in her cheeks and under her tongue, plinking into the clear water in the bowl now, instead of hitting the floor. That was all. The nausea, momentarily lessened by her bodys’ attempt to vomit flooded up in her again and, again, she welcomed it. Yes, she thought. Yes, yesss….PLEEEAAASSSEE! DO it!

The second wave was on her, and then the third. The power of them was shocking, but again, they brought nothing out of her, other than agony. She retched until she thought her throat would tear, until her brutalized ribs felt like shattered glass, until the pain ripping her, from jaw to crotch.  
That was the clowns’ plan, she realized. He isn’t going to let me get clean. I’m going to die here, in this bathroom, on this floor, my every organ in her belly burst and the poison in her sundered stomach went free to murder every inch of her from the inside.

And then, it came, falling on her with the force and brutality of a mad rapist. Her painful dry retch became a ululating gargle as her dinner flooded her mouth and nose, painfully distending her cheeks and jaws, hitting the back of the bowl and splashing everywhere, through the pain, she was dimly little warm droplets ricocheting onto her face.

God, what had they eaten, really? What was really in her stomach? Did her stomach hold with harmless food or the kind of unthinkable filth like the cookies? Would she be able to tell, when she saw all of it in the toilet? 

The thought brought her struggle to an instantaneous end. She drawing in a deep, involuntary breath, she lurched across the small room as her mouth ran with revolting moisture and dropped in front of the toilet, knees banging down on the tiles, her breasts mashing against the rim of the bowl, the cold and the pressure instantly bringing her nipples erect. . She grabbed the seat of the seat and slammed it backward as the sound of her retch echoed off of the shining walls.

Her eyes were running with tears, when the heave finally ended. She drew in a long, sobbing involuntary breath and immediately began vomiting again, every bit as loudly as before. “God,” she thought, blinking away tears, “they MUST be hearing me out there in the restaurant.” The spasm went on, pouring another huge load pouring into the toilet.

She retched hard and painfully, but nothing came. For a long time, and many waves, nothing. Her cheeks flowed out inpossible quantities of spit that splashed into the bowl, rippling the water, but nothing more. Was this how the clown was going to deal with her? Kill her by having her own body wrack itself until she died of the effort? She came to the horrible conclusion then, terrifyingly, that the stuff in her belly WAS poison and she wasn’t going to be able to get it out of her. It was going to stay inside her and work whatever fatal horror it was able. And then, it came. All of it. Sometimes it does, she thought.

When she was able, she stood and blotted her lips with paper from the roll, leaning shakily against the wall. She tossed the paper into the bowl, where it landed face up, the remnants of her bright red lipstick making a perfect open mouth kiss. She stared down at it for a long time, curiously stirred, before finally reaching for the flush handle and sending the paper and all of her vomit, thankfully just harmless, wasted food, swirling back down into the sewer, and laughed. 

“I’m throwing up all over you, you fucking clown! How do you like it? You DO like it, don’t you, you son of a bitch?” 

She straightened up and walked, shakily, from the ladies room. She felt so much better, fantastic, in fact, her body thrumming in the afterglow of complete physical release. She realized, with shock, that she’d had an orgasm as she finished being sick. She was badly in need of a cigarette. With Bill. For no reason that she could remember, the old song, ‘In The Mood’ played quietly in the back of her mind.


End file.
